Annecy, France—I am running on zero sleep, only pure enthusiasm to be back in “The Venice of France”.

This quintessential French town gives you everything up front—the Alps, a crystal clear lake, and pastel colored architecture that runs through medieval canals in the vieille ville.

The natural complexion of the Old Town puts visitors at ease—no need for contouring or filters—just be yourself and enjoy this little gem!

So, it is precisely what I do—I settle into my Airbnb studio in the heart of old town. A tiny kitchen, with the most basic necessities, that leads to the living room and dining area. The bed lies up in a loft, atop the bathroom. It gets a bit hot, but it is cozy—I tell myself. Plus, there is a reading lamp by the loft-bed! (Does it get better than this? I think not.)

Still running solely on enthusiasm, and dismissing my throbbing headache, I head over to Monoprix, where I purchase basic groceries to stock up my petite fridge.

By the time I return to my tiny studio in Rue de I’lle, I am ready to go to bed. But, I fight it. Instead, I play Selena—the one and only—and chop spring onions to add to the poulet I’ve prepared. As the chicken sears, I prepare a deliciously simple salad—butter lettuce, shredded carrots, diced tomato, avocado bits and boiled egg; extra onion, of course. EVOO, salt and pepper.

I sit, enjoy my salade with a glass of merlot, watching Unbreakable Kimmy Schimidt on Netflix—and wondering if perhaps I should be doing something a bit more cultured. Then, I decide that Titus Andromedon would do the same—and so I watch Season 3, Episode 12—shamelessly.

As soon as I finish my meal, however, my eyelids succumb to temptation. I fall asleep and dream of being on a “Cheese Cruise” with Alex. Yep, precisely as it sounds: an all you can eat cheese buffet in the Caribbean!

I must—I repeat—I must listen to my subconscious and so I plan to make it to Fromagerie Pier Gay after work tomorrow.

Crutches are humbling. I mean that in the most literal way possible—no fancy metaphors here. In the two weeks since I have been a four-legged human, I have experienced the good in people: family, friends and strangers—everyone taking care of me.

Of course, with the good also comes the bad: distant, half-hearted smiles and stares.

After the bad, comes the ugly in people:

Getting around on crutches is not easy; it’s exhausting. But, so worth it for a night out with friends! We met up at an underground, speakeasy bar that serves specialty cocktails. The bar is reminiscent of the 1920s with dim lighting and bartenders dressed in period clothing. Needless to say—a good time was had! After migrating to two other bars downtown, it was time to go home.

One of my friends pulled up to the curb, so as not to have to walk for long. As I was getting in to the car, a truck passed us on the left and a young woman yelled out, “Were you born a cripple?” As the truck drove off I could hear her, along with others, laughing hard.

Were you born a cripple?

My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach. I am not angry as much as I am disappointed. Hurt. Sad. I have a sprained knee and I’ve been on crutches for two weeks. I can’t help but wonder, what if I had been born with a disability that limited my mobility?

I can’t pretend to know, to truly know, what life on crutches—or other mobility devices—is like. But, I do know this: be kind, because that type of cruel shit hurts. It really, really hurts.